


Uncertain Territory

by shadowsapiens



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes
Genre: Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, First Kiss, First Love, Laegjarn Doesn't Realize What This Strange Feeling Is, Pining, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-01 07:21:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20254330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowsapiens/pseuds/shadowsapiens
Summary: No doubt Fjorm wants the week to assess Múspell’s strengths and weaknesses before reporting back to Nifl. Laegjarn will have to watch her every move. For diplomatic reasons.Not because of the dimples.





	Uncertain Territory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Serie11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serie11/gifts).

> Happy Pining Ex, Serie11! I loved your requests, and hope you enjoy the fic :)

Laegjarn feels too small in Múspell’s throne as she waits for the messenger from Nifl to approach. The air is fresh and clean, but she always tastes the memory of smoke in this room. The high windows are open, and white, clear sunlight streams in, but the bright light only darkens the shadows.

Laevatein asked once why she doesn't melt down the throne. Build a whole new throne room, if she hates this one so much. But Laegjarn refuses to hide from the past. She can’t pretend she isn’t her father's daughter.

She wishes she could forget it now, though, as she recognizes Queen Gunnthrá’s ambassador across the hall. Golden hair, a lance across her back, every movement graceful and strong—she would know Fjorm of Nifl anywhere.

Laegjarn hopes her surprise doesn't show on her face. The peace between their countries is new, fraught. She hadn’t expected Gunnthrá would send her own sister into uncertain territory.

Fjorm doesn't kneel at the throne, just bows politely. “My sister sends her greetings.”

Her voice is as soft and strong as Laegjarn remembered. Not cold at all, despite the frost she comes from. She carries with her a warmth that Laegjarn has never felt before. Not fire, but gentle sunlight against her skin.

"We are happy to receive Queen Gunnthrá's greetings," Laegjarn answers. "And you as well, Princess Fjorm. Please—" She falters a moment. It’s a fool’s dream to think Fjorm might feel _at home_ here. "—know we welcome you sincerely."

She can practically hear Laevatein rolling her eyes. But Fjorm only smiles, the barest twitch of her lips. "I'm grateful, Queen Laegjarn."

Laegjarn shifts on the throne. “Now, what is the purpose of your visit? Surely your sister wouldn’t send you to Múspell on a whim.”

Fjorm keeps smiling. She has dimples, and Laegjarn feels strangely dizzy. It takes her too long to realize that Fjorm is speaking again: “She sent me to affirm our friendship. By your leave, I’d like to impose on your hospitality for a week.”

“You are no imposition,” Laegjarn says. “My seneschal will ready quarters for you.”

Fjorm bows again, and when she straightens, she’s smiling.

No doubt Fjorm wants the week to assess Múspell’s strengths and weaknesses before reporting back to Nifl. Laegjarn will have to watch her every move. For diplomatic reasons.

Not because of the dimples.

***

Fjorm once said, _If we had not met on the battlefield, but somewhere more genial…_

She said it while Laegjarn was on her knees, bruised and disgraced and ready to die. The embers of the battlefield smoldered around them, smoke and blood acrid in her lungs, and she looked up at her enemy and offered her life.

But Fjorm didn’t take it. She said, _I think we could have been friends,_ and the soft words soothed Laegjarn’s bruises, and the smile eased her stinging heart.

Tonight, they sit together at a feast in Fjorm’s honor, and Fjorm stands up to raise her glass in a toast. Laegjarn again looks up at her—so sweet, so pretty. So resolute. She’s dressed in flowing blue silk, no armor tonight, a simple dagger at her waist, but she still looks strong enough to take on an entire army.

She raises her glass and meets Laegjarn’s eyes. “To friendship.”

The crowd echoes, “To friendship,” but the word catches in Laegjarn’s throat.

Friendship. It’s a nice dream. But they _did_ meet on the battlefield. They met in a world on fire, and when Laegjarn closes her eyes, she still sees the flames. However brave and kind Fjorm is—how can she let someone like Laegjarn into her heart?

But if Fjorm is willing… 

She raises her glass, and drinks to the dream.

***

“I didn’t expect such beautiful gardens here,” Fjorm says, bending down to caress a silverblossom. Her hand looks even more delicate than the pale petals.

“I had the garden planted in spring. It used to be a sparring ground.” Laegjarn feels something flutter in her stomach as she watches Fjorm’s eyes close, the way her lips part as she inhales the sweet fragrance. “We have other sparring grounds, of course, but the royal bedroom overlooks this courtyard.”

“And beautiful flowers make a prettier view than grunting soldiers?”

Laegjarn shrugs. “Depends on the soldiers.”

Fjorm’s laughter ripples like magic through Laegjarn’s whole body. She feels awake, alive, like she’s never been before. She’s suddenly desperate to hear Fjorm laugh again.

“You should show me the sparring grounds too,” Fjorm says. “Maybe we could cross spears a match or two.”

The suggestion is like cold water down Laegjarn’s back. Of course, the true reason for her visit. Fjorm wants to spy out Múspell’s military might. Laegjarn smiles politely. “Your sister would have my head if I sent you back bruised.”

“Likewise, yours would have mine.” Fjorm shrugs. “I trust you, though.”

Just like that, Laegjarn’s heart warms again. She reaches down and plucks the silverblossom. Holds it up to the light, then turns to Fjorm. “May I?”

Fjorm smiles and holds very still as Laegjarn tucks the flower into her hair.

***

The week is almost up when Laevatein corners her in her workroom. “Be careful, sister.”

Laegjarn glances up. She has a pile of reports and letters that have piled up over the past few days. Nothing urgent, and most has been handled by advisors already, but she likes to keep appraised. “I’m always careful.”

Laevatein snorts. “You’re the best general Múspell’s ever had, and the best ruler too. But you don’t have any experience in this.”

“In what?”

“Oh, please, I’m not blind, sister.” Laevatein plants her hands on the desk and leans over it. “I’ve seen how you are around her.”

Laegjarn bristles. After everything they’ve been through, Laevatein would doubt her here? “I’ll do nothing to bring harm to Múspell,” she says. “No matter how friendly I become with Princess Fjorm. Good night, sister.”

“Friendly,” Laevatein repeats. She has a look of disbelief on her face. “I’m not worried about _friendly_.”

“Good night, sister,” Laegjarn says, too tired to argue, and this time Laevatein takes the unsubtle hint. The door thuds gently shut behind her, leaving the room quiet—except for that word still rattling around Laegjarn’s head.

Friendly.

What else could it be? She certainly doesn’t think of Fjorm as an enemy. An ally. Someone trustworthy, honorable. Kind and bright and beautiful. So full of life, she inspires the strangest yearning in Laegjarn’s heart, a longing for friendship, for clear summer days, for a chance to hold her hand, to—

Oh, she realizes, with a giddy, sinking feeling. Laevatein is right. This isn’t about friendship at all.

***

Fjorm requests a private audience the night before she leaves. Laegjarn grants it, though the thought of being alone with Fjorm leaves her cold and hot all at once. She sends her guards out, even Laevatein, and receives Fjorm alone in her small parlor.

It’s cozy, intimate. There’s a pot of tea steaming on the table, and Laegjarn pours it herself.

“Thank you,” Fjorm murmurs, sitting down. “You’ve been so kind all week.”

Laegjarn sits across from her. “You treated me with kindness even when we were in the midst of war. It is the least I can do to treat you thus in peacetime.”

Something unreadable flashes across Fjorm’s face. “There is no debt between us, Laegjarn.”

“No. That’s not…” Laegjarn struggles to recollect her thoughts. She’s never felt so slow, so tongue-tied before. “I respect you deeply, Princess Fjorm, and I wish to be kind to you.”

“Oh.” Perhaps it’s the dim light, but Fjorm’s face looks rather pink. She sips her tea. Sets the cup down. Picks it up, then sets it down again. Fingertips resting delicately on the porcelain, she says, “I must confess, I’ve been dishonest this week.”

Laegjarn sets her own cup down, frowning. She senses no malice from Fjorm, only nervousness, but her well-earned paranoia has her counting the weapons within arms’ reach anyway. “How so?”

Fjorm lets go of the cup completely and taps the tabletop. Her face really does look pink. “I said I was here to affirm our friendship, between Nifl and Múspell. And that’s true, for my sister’s part, but for mine...”

Laegjarn goes cold. Of course, she was right all along. They met on the battlefield. This is the wrong world for friendship, much less anything more. She was foolish to hope.

She is preparing a polite, face-saving response, when Fjorm continues: “For my part, I would like more than friendship.” And, oh, she’s _definitely_ blushing. “If you’re willing.”

Once again, Laegjarn’s struck dumb by soft words and clear blue eyes. Time seems to stop, she can’t breathe, she can’t think, until Fjorm says, “Laegjarn? I’m sorry if I, I shouldn’t have—”

Oh, no. No, she doesn’t like that uncertainty in Fjorm’s voice at all. It breaks her from her paralysis, and she suddenly stands up. She crosses around the table and touches Fjorm’s jaw and tilts her face up. 

Fjorm’s pulse beats so rapidly beneath her fingers. Her eyes are wide, and her lips part. 

“I’ve never felt like this before,” Laegjarn says softly. “But gods, Fjorm, I’m willing.”

She doesn’t know what she’s doing. But when she leans down, and Fjorm leans up, it doesn’t seem to matter. The kiss sings through her, calms her heart and stirs her soul, and she thinks in that moment, maybe they met in the right world after all.

***

A rider leaves for Nifl in the morning, bearing a simple message: Princess Fjorm will be rather delayed returning from Múspell. 


End file.
